


March 27th, 1981. Friday Night.

by 19Thedas80 (VictoryRoad)



Series: 19Thedas80 [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Cigarettes, F/F, F/M, M/M, Modern Thedas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoryRoad/pseuds/19Thedas80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night in the lives of the University of Ferelden Skyhold-Haven's somewhat reluctant Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	March 27th, 1981. Friday Night.

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is 1980s set, where most battles were political but magic still exists (your standard mage tends to be able to conjure a light for a cigarette, though, not a hulking blood magic flesh monster).  
> This is based on my own personal interpretation of the ideal Dragon Age story (for maximum plot), in which Solas and Lavellan split but Lavellan is able to move on to another romance. Any potential anti-Solas sentiment should be seen as strictly in character as, well, he dumps her pretty harshly.

> **11:50PM. Friday, March 27 th, 1981 – Haven Street.**

She rested her head against the door jamb and listened for a moment to the deep, low thud of music from the club next door. It was getting late, stragglers were finding their way into the overcrowded apartment upstairs that someone rented, or owned, or whatever, where the breakaways from the biggest little queer club on Haven Street filed noisily into. She was smiled and nodded at those who filtered past, her eyes focussed more on the little shop across the road. _Arcanist,_ one of the oldest shopfronts in the area, where poor Dagna stepped out each morning to look for signs of wear and damage. Sometimes it would be paint, sometimes a broken window, always something. Lavellan made sure she had a few coins for the ongoing fundraiser. Queer smut, erotic photo books and mage goods covered rent, but damage was a cost that tended to balloon. 1981, and nothing seemed to have changed. Queer folk and mage folk still huddled together, knowing each was as despised as the other, and good people like Dagna who tried to preserve and share their heritage were left to scrub FIRESTARTER off the window.

“She’s doing OK,” Came a chirpy voice. Lavellan turned to face Sera, a wry smile on her lips. “She’s probably up for it. She doesn’t sleep much. I guess Dwarves don’t dream.” Lavellan rolled her eyes and reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a pair of cigarettes.

“Care to join me?” She asked, nudging one towards the other elf. She took it, shaking her head.

“Smoking’ll kill you,” Sera replied, lighting it. “Can’t have that.” Her eyes ran down Lavellan as a puff of smoke seeped gently over her lips. She let the cigarette hang at her side, an air of cool aloofness that she knew was an act.

“You putiing on a show for me, Sera?” She asked, inhaling.

“Don’t want you dying of shock because you’re not around your UF girls.” She raise a hand mockingly, affectation in her voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I nearly tripped over the discort. Whatever will daddy think?”

Lavellan paused for a moment, eying her. After a moment, she finally spoke. “Discourse.”

“Fuck you,” Sera playfully snapped back. The pair stood chuckling in the doorjamb as a grumpy looking dude pushed through them. The passer-through shoulder-checked Sera in the process, but the skinny elf came off no worse for wear. She stifled a laugh as the poor guy made a sound of genuine pain. A smoky silence was broken by a careful word, blunt-yet-deliberately chosen.  “So, fucking?”

Lavellan choked down an unexpected gasp of surprise. The cigarette smoke didn’t help much. A passer-by looked at her scornfully, like she was some poser-kid with her first cigarette. “Excuse me?” She finally managed to asked, still not fully parsing Sera’s meaning.

“Are you _fucking_ yet? It’s been what, two weeks since Baldy McFuckface dumped you, so, are you fucking?” She took another drag before making a face. “Fine, dating, whatever.”

“I…” Her face darkened slightly. Had it been two weeks? It didn’t seem like it had been much longer than that since she and Solas had even met. “He brought me here, you know.” She took a drag and looked out at Haven Street. “He knew I was a mage. I don’t think I ever told him I was bi, though. He just made assumptions. I’d be here for the Power Club, even though he looked down on them. Like they were using it wrong or something.” She sighed and went back to her default slouch, head against the doorway. “He always looked at me like there was something wrong with it all.”

“Hey,” Sera put an arm around her – gentle and comforting, but a little unsure of itself in the small tremors that gave away her inexperience with comfort. “This place owes you a debt. When Corphyfucker and his jackboots firebombed the chantry, you were here. You helped us. _You_ exposed him. _You_ helped us rebuild. Hell, _you_ got us half the money.”

“I know, but –“

“Whatever Fucko McDickbag might have done or not done, you’ve gotta live with everything.” Lavellan shot her a look, but Sera waved it off. “No, not like that. Jesus. I’m shite with words. Look, you’ve done things. You. Whether he was there or not means nothing. You did good because of you. Fuck him, and seriously, hurry up and fuck someone so you remember he wasn’t everything.”

Sera took a drag but her mouth was met quickly by Lavellan’s. She pushed backwards, indignant.

“Not me, you loony.”

Lavellan rested backwards against the door, an embarrassed blush on her face. “I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t.”

“I’d want a drink first. Maybe dinner. I’m not gonna be your rebound, because I know that’s what it’d be. If you get in these pants, you’re actually calling me the day after.”

Bright red cheeks gave way to a happy smile, as the pair stood for a moment against the backdrop of swelling bass. “You like Orlesian food?”

“Hate it.”

“Thank the Maker.” Lavellan studied Sera for a moment – she was an art school girl through and through. Solas had scoffed at her choice of medium, but abstract art through archery seemed like the perfect way to describe her – all the fury and forthrightness of an arrow, but with self-expression that took a little work to understand. She had always fascinated her in a way Solas did not, he had been a man of mystery and close-held secrets, but Sera was a ball of sometimes-miscommunicated joy that made her want to know more.

“Hold up Squire, I’ve gotta go throw things at this guy,” Sera burst out, and before Lavellan knew what was happening the wiry elf had fled into the street, rushing after a dwarven boy with terror in his eyes. She chuckled and turned away from the doorway, turning instead to the busy upstairs flat.  She climbed the stairs gingerly, avoiding passing bodies and lovers in the narrow confines of the rundown building.

“Hey Krem,” She called, patting a hand to his back, “You seen Leliana anywhere?”

“Not since Maryden walked in. I think she was up top, though.” He replied, through swigs of a nasty looking brown beer. Lavellan continued her trek upwards, past the makeout rooms and political drunk-tanks, up to the attic balcony that only Leliana seemed to have a key to. Stray birds would hang around and peck at crumbs she left – intentionally, of course – but never at night. It was probably the music that kept them away at night. She pushed through the door to find her tending to their morning meal, dropping crumbs along the railing.

“Busy night?” She asked, and the Orlesian turned with a smile.

“I always have time to take a break.” The pair settled against the railing, staring out at Haven Street beyond them. Most of the damage was repaired, but the unsettling modernity of the repairs to a centuries-old place was a fresh wound in itself.

“I was thinking about you before,” Lavellan admitted. She took a drag of her cigarette then, realising, offered Leliana one. She declined.

“Not for me,” Nightingale replied. She tapped her throat delicately. “I just end up coughing for hours.” Her smile widened a little bit, as she half-craned towards the elf. “So, was I basking radiant in your dreams, or are you plotting to throw me off the balcony?”

Lavellan laughed. “As if. I was thinking about your time in the Warden Party, actually.” Leliana’s eyes glazed over slightly. “I know, I know, a lifetime ago.”

“1970 is hardly a lifetime ago.” Leliana Nightingale’s voice was always soft and tender, like a mother that disapproves but still wants to support her child. “I’m only 33.”

“33, gosh, what a wizened crone,” Lavellan teased. Leliana shot her a look.

“Sera is rubbing off on you,” She observed. “A five minute conversation and you’re already copying her style.”

“You saw, huh?” Lavellan turned away slightly, the flush of embarrassment returning.

“It is my job to see, and being above everyone doesn’t hurt.” She pointed down to the street, at a passer-by who looked to have around ten drinks too many. “Back in my Warden days, someone like that was our prime target. They’d listen, they wouldn’t _remember_ it, but in the morning they’d be a little better disposed to us. Small victories.”

“How did you manage it all?” Lavellan interrupted anxiously. “This Inquisition is effectively a fundraising arm of the Chantry, and yet I feel like the walls are always falling down.”

“They always are.” Leliana said through her smile, a grim sentiment across a pleasant exterior. “It was places like this that kept me going. I remember my dear Mahariel, and they way she held me as we danced in public for the first time. Small victories, Inquisitor Lavellan. They’re what will keep you going in the end, no matter how many walls have fallen around you in the process.”

* * *

 

> **10:30PM. Friday, March 27 th, 1981 – University of Ferelden Skyhold-Haven.**

“Come on, Moustache. You’ll miss it.” Bull was walking backwards, a shit-eating grin on his face as Dorian trailed behind. “It’s not been that long.”

“You’ve dragged me in circles for the last half hour,” Dorian puffed. Bull was the athlete – Dorian was an academic through and through, and it was starting to show. Pavus men had rarely gone in for physical exercise, let alone being taken on a long and seemingly pointless tour of a university’s facilities to find some supposedly fantastical and awe-inspiring sight. It was true, he admitted when Bull had first mentioned it to him, that UFSH was pretty high up. It _would_ be easier to see natural phenomena here, but they’d crossed the courtyard six times now and seemed to be no closer to actually finding this fabled sight that would make poor Dorian weak at the knees with patriotic and religious fervour. Bull denied that was what it would do, but that’s what all awe-inspiring sights in Tevinter were meant to do at least. He didn’t have much else to go on.

A large hand gripped his ass tightly as it spurred him forward, an outraged and slightly terrified look on Dorian’s face in the meantime. “ _Bull!_ ” He shout-whispered. “Someone might see!”

“Let ‘em,” He laughed. “They’d probably just wish I was playing grabass with them instead. Have you seen me?” He grinned. Dorian sighed. It was something of a pattern they fell into. No matter how the Iron Bull might leave him exasperated, he had to admit this was the most fun he’d had since… well, _ever._ “Anyway, enough crap – we’re here.”

He pointed to the sky, a thick finger tracing the wavy lines of an aurora. Apparently the courtyard _had_ been the place to see it from. “Wow,” Dorian half-mumbled, his stiff limbs not mattering quite so much as he watched it flick and dance above him. The Frostbacks might only be a half-hour from town, but he was starting to see why someone had built a university up in them. How often did this happen? How many other students had stood here, watching the lights? He didn’t really notice Bull’s arms wrap around him, pulling him down, until he was lying in his lap watching the light shimmer its unnatural glow.

“Still worried about someone seeing us?” Bull asked, fingers running through Dorian’s thick hair. Bull’s tendency to mother him didn’t bother young master Pavus much – it was a welcome change, both in his own life and Bull’s outward appearance. There was a great comfort in a large, aggressive qunari acting tenderly towards him, a particular exception to so many rules he’d never really known before.

“Not really,” He said, leaning up to kiss him. Soft and gentle, the way Bull _hated._ An upturned lip scowled at Dorian as he leaned back into his lap. It was such an easy mark. Bull liked it rough, but it was the tender stuff that caught him off guard.

“Not fair,” Bull grumbled, adjusting his sitting position slightly, large knees pushing against Dorian’s back, “Teasing me like that.” Dorian laughed, feeling just how much Bull had reacted pressing up against his back.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to take you back and let you ravish me, but for now, this is more than enough.” Dorian smiled and let his head loll backwards, the quiet chirp of night scoring the lights. Someone would spot them any minute now. For the moment, though, he couldn’t care less.

“Want to head down to Haven Street for a bit before I ruin another pair of your pants?” Bull smirked, but Dorian kept on staring. Whatever minor magics a mage could do, it was nature that impressed him more. He had never had an affinity for nature, and often wished he was one of the mages gifted with that natural fluency.

“Oh no, for bringing me here…” He smirked and shifted his body against Bull slightly, revelling in the tease, “I think we’re going to be a while when we get back.” _Oh yes,_ he thought, feeling Bull’s body move as he promised him the world, _I **am** good at teasing him. _

Above them the Ferelden sky twinkled, one last glimmer of faint beauty against the dark. Much to do. He yawned and closed his eyes for a moment, embracing the night.

* * *

 

> **11PM. Friday, March 27 th, 1981 – River Dane Tavern.**

“I believe that’s my hand,” Cullen smirked and laid down his hand. Blackwall laid his cards down in indignant rage.

“You’re a cunt, Cullen, but you’re a damn fine cardshark. Who taught you to play?” Blackwall stroked at his beard as menacingly as he could. It worked. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down Cullen’s brow as the Warden’s eyes burrowed into him.

“He _cheats,_ ” Josie snorted, dealing again. “What you lack in diplomacy, Blackwall, he makes up for with the ability to outmanoeuvre.”

“Nothing I did was cheating!” Cullen said, shocked and offended. “At least,” He hesitated, “Not directly.”

Blackwall laughed and signalled to the waitress for a drink. She gave the scruffy looking man a once-over and rolled her eyes, reluctantly returning with another pint. He accepted it, graciously, before turning back to the game. Cards found their way into his hands, and he locked a steely gaze at his two opponents. “We could’ve used someone like you in the Party, you know.” He raised a few chips and waited for the responsive click-clack of similar bets.

“I was in the Metropolitan Police at the time, I was on the front lines myself.” Cullen raised his own bet slightly higher. “I would have if I could have, to be quite honest, but I had a mess to clear up at the Redcliffe circle. However I made it here to being, Maker preserve me, _vice-chancellor_ , I wouldn't go back to then.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Josephine eyed her cards carefully as the others finally paid closer attention to their hands. “The past is a foreign country, and we have quite another matter to attend to.” She laid down her hand, a wicked smile on her face. “Well then?”

Cullen and Blackwall laid their hands down disappointedly. Josie raked the chips in eagerly as the men turned to each other again.

“I can’t imagine what it was like in Ferelden. I was just a recruiter.” Blackwall shook his head as the door opened, a waft of cold air following a familiar elven shape as it entered. “Well, well, well,. Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Ah, of course. I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Blackwall.”

“Solas,” Cullen waved, “Join us for a game.” He had a somewhat grim face, and Blackwall had adopted one too. Only Josie kept her standard face – but she had always been the better Wicked Grace player than either of them. Solas passed a request to the waitress as he sat, and receiving a hand of cards she sat a glass of red wine down beside him.

“Wicked Grace. I haven’t played this in quite some time.” He took a sip and studied his cards.

“Didn’t play it with the Inquisitor then?” Josie sniped. Solas’ face soured slightly.

“I see.” He turned to the other players, a plaintive expression on his face. “I was wondering why I had only now ever been invited to join one of your games.”

“It’s not like that,” Cullen waved him off. “We work together. We’re professionals. We’re also good friends of the Inquisitor Lavellan who you happened to leave somewhat upset.” He raised a few chips and reclined in his chair. “If anything, I think we’d just like to know _why._ ”

“You said it yourself,” Solas retorted, raising as he felt appropriate. “We’re colleagues.” Blackwall scoffed as he threw his chips in.

“As if. Two months is a long time to forget you work together.”

“And yet I remembered,” He said, waiting for Josie to raise. She waved him off.

“Oh no, I fold.” She set her hands down, already defeated. “It’s quite easy to give up on something you don’t care about.” Solas gripped his glass tightly, the meaning not escaping him at all. So deliberately barbed a comment had always seemed beyond Josie’s penchant for diplomacy – but the glass beside her was empty, and he had hurt her friend.

“I raise again,” He said silently. Cullen laid down his cards, Blackwall did the same. Solas studied the hands. Blackwall had the winning hand, no doubt. “I fold.” Taking the wine glass in his hand, he drunk deep, devouring it as if it was a beer. Blackwall’s face turned momentarily respectful. “If you’ll excuse me,” He intoned, and the three were left to their standard game. Solas, it seemed, had decided to move on.

“Varric? Changed your mind yet?” Josie called over to the corner of the bar. A writing hand waved her off, and she turned back to the door, wondering if Solas might reappear, but knowing that he too knew the art of diplomacy. “Dread wolf take you,” She muttered to the night as she began shuffling the deck.


End file.
